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Peter hasn’t talked to Tony in two weeks, three days, and about five hours.
Geez, it sounds really creepy when he thinks of it that way.
Alright, so maybe he has put some thought into it, but not like that. By now, he’s actually kind of resigned to what’s gone down, and some semblance of acceptance to this crazy-ass situation has begun to bleed in his mind these past few weeks. He’s sure had had a hell of a lot of time to himself to think it all over recently.
Like, a lot of time.
As for counting the days, it’s just been inherently, incredibly weird without Peter constantly hovering around these past few weeks, and that’s really what makes Tony so aware of the time passing as it is without the kid’s presence. It’s hard not to notice how quiet it’s been around the compound lately.
But Peter’s absence is scarily evident in more ways than just the physical sense. It’s not like Peter’s always at the compound and actually near Tony, but the amount of text messages the kid typically sends to him on a daily basis is nearly unholy, and it’s not uncommon for Tony to get a late-night call over a physics homework question or a video chat request after a rough patrol. It’d be easier to get rid of a roach infestation, honestly. Even if Peter isn’t there, he’s always around.
Up until two weeks, three days, and about five hours ago, that is. Tony hasn’t gotten an emoji-smothered text from the kid since then. It’s unsettling to say in the least.
And, with that, there goes the last, pathetic remnants of his focus. Now that his mind’s on the topic of the kid, it won’t be changing for a while, and it’s probably best to just ride it out.
Tony finally sets down the tablet he’s been slaving over all night, leaves it abandoned on his lab table and instead paces over to the old couch he’s got shoved against one wall of the workshop in favor of dropping down there, sinking into the cushions with a heavy sigh. The couch itself is also just another reminder of Peter, which is part of the reason he finds himself gravitating over here whenever he misses the kid more than usual.
After Peter starting spending time with Tony in the workshop a handful of months back, they both very quickly realized that there was no good place to take a break between hours at the lab tables, other than succumbing to sitting on the truthfully filthy and frankly uncomfortable concrete floor. So, when Peter stumbled across this ancient, sagging thing at a garage sale one day while on patrol, he took it upon himself to drag it back to Tony the next morning with a triumphant grin and the proud declaration that he managed to get it for just five bucks.
It’s practically prehistoric, with worn cushions and the faint yet lingering odor of cheap beer that makes Tony think it may have once had a home in a frat house somewhere. The middle of the framework sags in on itself with just enough curve to make anyone sitting on it feel themselves tipping, and the material is so faded that neither of them can tell what color it was originally supposed to be anymore.
But even with it’s suspicious smells and structurally unsound build, Peter loves it with the kind of fiery ferocity usually reserved for a parent towards their child. That’s why Tony decided to upgrade the ugly thing instead of just buying them a brand new, bodily-fluid free sofa. Now the couch has a basic AI installed in it that warms the cushions and communicates in beeps with the other bots in the workshop. Peter named it Seatheart.
Tony lets his palm skate over the weathered, pilly surface of the cushion next to him as another sigh heaves out of his lungs. Despite the distant yet strong urge to wash his hands after touching it, he’s reluctantly fond of the couch anyway. Peter would be pleased.
Seatheart beeps quietly at the contact, almost like how a cat might purr at being stroked.
After Tony accidentally dropped the news on the kid in what was quite possibly the least graceful way possible, Peter was understandably upset, confused, and angry, hit with the punchline before the set up and therefore not understanding the circumstances under which the abrupt announcement was taking place. Before Tony had a chance to properly explain, the kid was already gone. Happy drove him home in silence, and Tony stepped back, let Peter process until he was up for the unavoidable conversation they’re undeniably going to have. Pepper and Rhodey both told him that Peter would come to him when he was ready, and Tony knew they were right.
But recently, Tony’s started to doubt that the kid will ever be ready to talk this one over.
He can’t find it in himself to blame him.
Shifting on the couch, Tony reaches to tug his phone out of his jeans pocket, gaze flickering up when a familiar whir of machinery cuts through the music he’s still got playing in the background. DUM-E has rolled himself over at some point in the past few minutes and is now hovering beside Tony’s legs, beeping in a way that’s both curious and troubled. His claw clicks open and shut a few times in inquiry. Seatheart beeps back in greeting.
“What’s up, rustbucket?” Tony mutters to the robot. His phone is in his hands, the screen black and silent, there more out of habit than necessity. “Need oil or something?”
DUM-E clicks again, then reaches out and nudges Tony’s hand, as if concerned.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re worried about me.” Tony pushes DUM-E’s claw away, gentle but firm. “You haven’t seen me get out the alcohol yet, so, clearly, I’m fine. Go away.”
But the bot doesn’t move, instead just beeping with a bit more fervor, this time a little higher in pitch. He nudges Tony’s hand again with renewed determination, and almost knocks the phone onto the concrete in his efforts.
Tony grapples to catch the phone before it can fall, shoving DUM-E’s claw away again. “Woah, hey, watch the expensive technology. It’s worth three of you.”
DUM-E’s whir nearly turns into a whine this time, seeming frustrated with Tony’s lack of understanding. He swivels, almost slamming his arm into Tony in the motion, and rams his claw into the couch cushions. A plume of dust poofs into the air with the impact. Seatheart beeps shrilly in protest.
That’s when Tony gets it. The phone, the couch, the worried beeping. Of course.
“You want to know what happened to Peter,” Tony says flatly.
The beeps speed up as if in confirmation and DUM-E stops trying to assassinate his phone, so Tony assumes that he’s got it right. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. DUM-E and Peter have always had kind of a weird bond. It probably has something to do with Peter being unable to have pets in his apartment and DUM-E’s stupid yet endearing qualities (those two are similar like that), but Peter has always loved the bots, DUM-E in particular. It would make sense that he would miss the kid.
“He’s okay, if that’s what you’ve got your wires in a twist about,” Tony says. He leans forward so that his elbows rest on his thighs, and turns his phone over a few times in his hands, watching the motion mindlessly. “Just pissed off.”
A soft whir rises as DUM-E bumps his claw into Tony’s hands again, gentler this time. Tony gets the idea that it’s more in an attempt to comfort now than anything else.
Tony unlocks the phone almost automatically and opens his contacts without thinking about it, scrolls down to Spider-Baby, clicks on the information. He has Peter’s contact photo set as a selfie the kid took a few months back when Tony left his phone unguarded, and for as unflattering as the picture is, it makes Tony smile anyway. “You know, he’s probably not mad at you, boy. I bet he’d answer a call if he knew it was from you and the bots instead of me.” Tony lets his thumb hover over the call button, not entertaining the actual possibility of calling the kid so that DUM-E can say hello but amused by the idea anyway. “I’m sure he misses you too.”
DUM-E’s whirring increases in pitch, and there’s a split instant where Tony knows he’s made a mistake. But then DUM-E’s claw swings forcefully into Tony’s hand before he can react, and his thumb slams into the call button with the force of the impact.
The bluetooth speakers he’s got set up around the workshop cut the music and blare the sound of the dial tone instead as the phone flies out of his grip, hitting the floor with a thud and skittering out of reach across the concrete. DUM-E rolls away quickly with a shrill whir of panic. Seatheart beeps after him in a way that could be supportive but could also be scolding. Tony can’t tell, her beeps all sound the same to him.
”Shit,” Tony hisses, lunging after the phone and nearly falling off the couch as he goes, his movements frantic and sloppy with panic. He finally manages to scoop the phone up again on the second or third ring, and he goes to cancel it, nearly punching the red button in his panic and somehow managing to miss it on the first try, desperately praying that the call might be quick enough for Peter to not have even seen it.
But then the call is rejected before he can cancel it, and the phone goes silent. The background noise of ACDC fades back into the speakers.
Tony sits back on the couch and stares at the phone for a moment, the screen smoothly returning to Peter’s contact information like nothing just happened. He feels like his entire world just surged to the clouds before dropping to the sea within the span of seconds, and god, the relative quiet and stillness of the workshop is almost taunting, still just sitting there and panting as his stunned oblivion begins to fade.
And that’s when it actually hits.
Peter just declined his call. The kid usually picks up on the first ring with some wry quip or an overly enthusiastic greeting or occasionally a breathless reassurance that oh no Mr. Stark I’m not hurt it’s just a little bit of blood really, and never has he flat out declined Tony’s call. Never.
The kid’s still pissed.
Tony might have just made it even worse.
That damn robot is done for.
Swearing colorfully, Tony shoves himself to his feet and tosses his phone to the cushions, already starting for where DUM-E’s half hiding behind one of his lab tables. “You!” he yells over the music, and DUM-E starts blaring an alarm that sounds a lot like something you might hear during a fire drill, rolling away rapidly with his claw anxiously clicking. Tony follows him, picking up speed and ducking around a half-finished piece of equipment to try and cut off the bot’s path. “I swear to god, I’m this close to tearing you apart and selling your parts on the black market for nothing but a contaminated dime, you absolute disgrace to sophisticated technology-”
Tony chases DUM-E around the workshop for the next fifteen minutes. According to FRIDAY, it's the most cardio he’s gotten all month.
***
Two days later, Tony gets a call from the New York police department.
Every once in a while, they’ll contact him to see if he and his team (not that there’s really much of a team anymore, but he can sometimes scrounge up somebody interested) to help them out with high-risk cases. However weird everything is with the government at the moment, the local cops do generally understand that the majority of halfway organized heroes do more good than harm in the city, and recently, they really haven’t been hesitant in asking for help from Spider-Man and friends for a few of the bigger cases. Tony’s almost guaranteed an invite to the chief of police’s family Christmas party at this rate.
But this time, they’re contacting him about a bust months in the making. The people they’re busting run an illegal ring that apparently sells all sorts of dangerous, illegal materials, but their two main exports are street drugs and hefty weaponry that shouldn’t be available to the public or, honestly, humans in general, so the police are hesitant to send their guys into a situation they wouldn’t be likely to walk out of. Iron Man and Spider-Man are evidently suitable alternatives.
The department found the HQ a while back in an old warehouse, and they’ve handled all the technical shit with the mission planning since. Now, they just need the heroes to step up and get the job done officially. That’s where this particular phone call comes in.
When he first gets the call, Tony is instantly less than fond of the idea of sending Peter into a situation as risky as this. The kid really did just get stabbed a few weeks ago, and supernatural healing factors aside, Tony would rather not find himself in a similar predicament so soon after the last one. But, once he actually takes the time to think it over, he recognizes his chance to maybe begin on the path to recovery with this whole shitty parentage situation.
A flair for danger has always been something Tony and Peter have in common (despite how much grey hair Peter’s flair gives Tony) and missions have always been a safe space for them. On the field, with their public personas firmly in place and conveniently stifling their personal emotions while they’re at it, it’s easier for the both of them. A mission like this would hopefully would open up communication again, at least. That would be a start. And man, Tony really needs a start.
So, he finds himself sitting on Seatheart again within the hour, his phone in his hands, and gets ready to launch the idea to one May Parker.
DUM-E’s claw is currently resting on his leg like a dog might settle her head on his owner’s knee. Tony hadn’t gone through with his threats once he finally did catch up with the bot the few days ago, instead settling for making a new dunce cap for him and settling with that for the rest of the afternoon. And then DUM-E brought him unprompted coffee yesterday in what Tony thinks was a peace offering of some kind, and they’ve reached a fragile alliance that has led up to now.
Granted, the coffee was actually half a mug’s worth of cold water with a soaked packet of unopened instant coffee floating around in it like a dead fish, but Tony accepted the apology anyway.
He makes sure DUM-E’s claw is a safe distance from the screen as a precaution as he scrolls down to May’s contact, selecting Aunt Hottie and watching her information shift onto the screen. Now this, this feels familiar, and it’s reassuring because of it. He’s been doing this a lot lately; calling May, talking with her freely, exchanging intel between the two of them and gossiping about Peter’s nerdy little friends like overly involved PTA moms. Selecting her contact is an action so practiced it’s nearly muscle memory by this point.
Ever since Peter stopped talking to Tony, they’ve adopted the tradition of talking at least every other day to keep each other up to date on the parts of Peter’s life they’ve each got access to. May tells him about the results of his Spanish test while he lists off the information he gets from the Spider-Man suit, and together, they’ve got a decent grasp on how the kid’s doing. Apparently, Peter’s kind of shut himself off to her too since the incredibly ungraceful reveal, so they both need the correspondence. And May’s been all kinds of amazing these past few weeks just in general. Once she got the whole story and understood Tony’s side of things, she’s genuinely been doing her best to make Peter see reason, and that doesn’t even touch on the support she’s offered Tony through all this shit. For as furious she was with him at first, she’s come around.
Thank god she’s taken pity on him.
So Tony’s calling to ask her for her permission to take the kid on this mission, and he’s kind of hoping she’ll help with convincing Peter to agree as well. With literally any luck at all, she’ll see this as the opportunity it is to start mending the gap between Tony and Peter, and clear his pitiful attempt to get the kid talking again. At least he knows she’s not gonna sugarcoat whatever response she gives.
His thumb hovers over the call button for a moment before he presses down, and the dial tone starts with trilling suspense. He brings the phone to his ear and raises his eyebrows slightly at DUM-E, who is clicking encouragingly at a soft volume, as if afraid of disrupting the call if he gets any louder. “You don’t need to sit here and stare at me while I ask her about this, you know,” Tony tells him flatly, but DUM-E just nudges his knee with his claw and chirps supportively. Seatheart backs him up with a few auxiliary beeps of her own. Tony’s about to say more when the dial tone is cut off by the familiar sound of a call being answered.
”Hey,” May says, sounding both a little surprised and little wary, ”is everything alright? You don’t usually call this early.”
Tony glances at his watch and hey, would you look at that, it’s barely nine in the morning. May’s probably at work. He instantly feels guilty to interrupting her job and kind of stupid for not checking the time earlier, but his sleep schedules been off the charts funky lately and he lost all concept of scheduling around last Thursday, so it really didn’t cross his mind. “Damn,” he mutters. “I didn’t realize how early it was, actually. You busy?”
He knows she is, it’s nine on a Wednesday morning, she’s gotta be at work, but that apparently doesn’t stop her. ”Oh, no, it’s fine. Is something wrong? Peter’s okay, right?”
“No, nothing’s wrong, yes, the kid’s fine.”
”Oh,” she says, and he can hear the relief in her voice. He probably could have thought out his intro better. The awkward time realization and muttered swearing probably wasn’t the most reassuring greeting. ”Okay, good. So what’s going on?”
Tony sits back against the couch, DUM-E whirring softly as he moves with him. His free hand rests on the bot’s flank, tapping mindlessly as he takes a breath, lets it out slow. “You got a minute?”
May listens intently as he explains the potential mission, interjecting occasionally with questions or comments but mostly just letting Tony talk uninterrupted. When he finishes, she’s quiet for a moment, and Tony just keeps tapping the pads of his fingers against DUM-E, relieving nervous energy as he waits. He’s not so freaked out about this whole talking part, but whatever answer she hits him with will decide some shit, and then he might have some reason to get freaked out. If she says no, then this whole vow of silence thing Peter’s got going on might reach monumental proportions before Tony gets the balls back to try do something about it again. She’s gotta say yes. Tony’s gotta get a chance to explain sometime.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that Peter will be okay with it even if she does say yes, but that’s a whole different thing to stress over.
Finally, she lets out a measured breath, and Tony’s hand stills on DUM-E’s flank in tense anticipation. “Gotta admit, I’m not thrilled with the idea of sending my kid into the middle of a gang HQ,” she says, after a moment. “Are you sure that this is as safe as you say it is?”
“Kinda,” he answers honestly. It’s not gonna be school crosswalk levels of security, of course, but he also likes to think that it’s not suicidal-style dangerous. “We’ll be covered by the cops on the outside, and I’ll be there. Believe me, I don’t love the idea of Peter with a bunch of thugs either, so if I get my way, he’ll barely be in the action at all. I won’t let him get hurt.”
May’s voice turns flat. “The last time you two went out together, Peter got stabbed and almost bled out.”
Tony winces. DUM-E nudges his leg again with his claw, like the robot version of ooh, burn. “You had to bring that up, huh?” he says, hoping his voice isn’t as strained as he thinks it is. He’s already thought about that last royal fuck-up enough when considering this mission, and already run through all of the thousand and one ways he’s to blame for that. At least he knows that May can’t hit him with anything he hasn’t already obsessed over. That’s mildly reassuring.
“No, but seriously.”
Tony sighs. “We both know that I’ll do everything in my power to keep him safe, May.”
“You better,” she grumbles, but then sighs a minute later, and Tony is pretty sure that this is her way of giving him permission. She’d be throwing a bigger fit about it if she was really, truly opposed to the idea; for as fiercely protective she is of Peter, Tony’s gotta give her credit in the way that she genuinely does understand and accept the kid’s involvement in these types of things. She gets it, even if it takes a solid six months off her life every time Peter comes home with a minor concussion he insists he can just sleep off. ”I’ll let Peter know when he gets home from Ned’s tonight.”
Tony skims his thumb over one of DUM-E’s bolts, his forehead creasing into a slight frown. Carefully, he asks, “So you think he’ll be okay with doing it?”He knows that May’s probably got a better idea of what the kid is willing to do than he does, and where Peter is on the winding, tough path to forgiveness. He’d at least like a ballpark estimate. He can brace himself for either possible response that way.
”He’ll see through it as a very obvious attempt by you to start you two talking again, if that’s what you’re asking,” May says bluntly, not bothering to sugarcoat it, ”but yeah, I think he’ll do it anyway.”
Tony sighs. “I thought it might be a way to start things up again.”
”It might be,” she says, her voice just gentle enough to hint at sympathy. She pauses for a moment, but then she sighs, and her voice is soft when she speaks. ”He really does miss you, you know. I think he’s starting to come around.”
A guy can dream. “Really?”
”Well, not in a way that says he wants anyone to know about it, but I think he’s beginning to get it. Or, he wants to get it. Peter can only stay mad at someone for so long without a solid reason.”
Tony pats DUM-E absently, the bot softly whirring in support at the contact. He misses the kid, he really does, but more than anything else, he just wants this to be resolved. He wants the kid to hear it from him that he didn’t know about this until just a few days before Peter did, and that he would have never kept something like this from him. He wants to make sure the kid understands that he picked him out from the crowd for his talent and heart, not for his genetics. He wants to apologize.
He also wants their relationship to go back to what it is, for the kid to trust him again, for him to regain his place in Peter’s life and never let it slip away again, but he’ll settle for resolvement.
“Yeah,” he finally says, breaking the quiet that had settled in between the two of them. “Yeah, I hope so.”
”Me too, Stark,” May says. She sighs again, and her voice turns carefully supportive, cautiously kind, as if Tony’s not alone in wishing this shitstorm would just blow over already. ”I guess we’ll just see what happens.”
“I guess we will.”
***
As if happens, Peter actually does end up agreeing to the mission.
However, that doesn’t mean the kid’s forgiven him yet. The fact that Peter is still completely livid is so obvious it feels like it just stabbed Tony in the chest with the same damn blade that almost took out Peter two weeks ago and got them all into this mess in the first place.
It’s his body language, Tony thinks. They meet at the police department the morning of the mission, and as Peter steps out of the car, his visible anger seems corporeal enough to smack somebody in the face. Happy looks almost sympathetic from the driver’s seat. That alone tells Tony that this is bad.
He’s already fully suited up, but that just makes it easier to see how tense he is, the lines of his posture sharper and more defined, his jaw set through the mask and his steps stiffer, as if he’s so focused on keeping his guard up that it’s as if the bubbly, innocent enthusiasm that seems to be a permanent part of him is completely hidden under his complete and total aversion to Tony. He walks as if he’s steeling himself, with his arms rigid at his sides. He doesn’t meet Tony’s eyes.
“You good?” Happy asks Tony, one elbow slung out of the open driver’s window. He looks gruffly worried, both apologetic and concerned. Happy had been another factor in this clusterfuck of a situation. With him messing up the reveal as much as he accidentally had, Tony honestly was furious at him for a few days. But after those few days of hot-headedness and searing regret passed, Tony knew it really wasn’t the guy’s fault. Happy never meant for it go down like that. It wasn’t fair to pile all this shit on him.
But, from this experience and others, Tony personally gets how good it can feel to just be angry in the face of something difficult to overcome, how right and satisfying it can be to just blame someone for the shit that goes down in your life. Suddenly, it’s as if the senseless and boundless anger you feel is being channeled to a target, and it’s suddenly easier to handle because of it. You’ve got someone to shove all your crap on and it feels good.
He gets it, even if wishes he doesn’t, and he understands what Peter’s going through here.
He also wishes he wasn’t the one being blamed, but he gets that too.
“I’m good,” he says softly, and Happy shoots Tony a final look of grim comradery before driving away. Tony and Peter are suddenly alone on the sidewalk outside the police department, and it’s as if both of them are abruptly hyper-aware of this fact, standing there awkwardly and unsure of how proceed.
Peter seems to eye Tony through the Spider-Man mask for a long moment, not quite giving him the honor of looking at him flat out but still watching him carefully, as if trying to measure Tony’s reactions against his own. Tony has his helmet retracted back into his suit, so every expression that flickers across his face is on full display. He tries to keep his features neutral. He knows that they’re anything but.
They both just stand there for a long moment, neither of them daring to progress past this point. They face off, really, with Tony’s back to the department and Peter’s to the street. Peter’s shoulders are squared, and Tony can’t deny how weird it is to see the kid this guarded towards him, it’s weird how closed off Peter instantaneously is. The kid is so extroverted it’s as if his inner commentary is written in bold in a thought bubble suspended over his head at all times. It doesn’t feel right now that the thought bubble is secured with a lock and key.
The mask has a similar effect. It hides Peter’s expression, so Tony has literally no idea what the kid is thinking. After all the months they’ve spent together, Tony’s gained the ability to read Peter’s face at a glance, but now even that has been taken from him. Save for the anger currently lining his posture that’s so obvious even a stranger could pick up on it easily, Tony’s completely blind to this kid. It feels incredibly, inherently wrong.
It’s another moment before Tony can even wrack up the courage to move, and all he does is gesture vaguely in Peter’s direction, like some pathetic attempt at motioning out what he wants to say but can’t find the words for. The exhale he releases grates on his throat.
Peter breaks the stillness. He starts walking towards the department doors with measured steps, his head held high and body still wound tight as a spring, with each footfall on the concrete seeming to resonate in Tony’s mind. When he passes Tony, he grants him a single, cordial nod without slowing. “Mr. Stark,” he says quietly, before continuing on without a backwards glance.
Tony stands there and watches him go.
***
“You know what we’re doing here today, right?”
It’s been less than an hour since the police department, and Tony’s already decided that he’s not standing for this. He won’t let Peter be all huffy and closed off the entire time, and he’s definitely not gonna let the kid strike him silent again. That was pathetic. That was humiliating. No more of that.
As much as he understands the reasons behind Peter’s careful distance, this is his one chance to start communication again, and he’s not going to let it slip away. He’ll make this kid talk to him if it kills him.
Unfortunately, at this rate, it’s probably going to end up killing them both in cold blood.
They walk side by side as they approach the warehouse, but Peter doesn’t even glance Tony’s way, instead staring straight ahead like his eyes are glued to the scraggly bushes next to the back door they’re planning to enter through. For as strange as it feels just strutting into a gang HQ like this in plain daylight, the police swear up and down that there’s no surveillance footage on the outside of the warehouse, so, in theory, this is actually the simplest way of getting in. Tony’s not going to point out his doubts- the cops probably know more about this than him, however sketchy it feels.
“Yeah,” Peter says shortly. “Officer Franklin explained it to me.”
“We get in, be big intimidating superheroes for a few minutes, scare the shit out of these thugs and then march them out to the cops so they can arrest ‘em once and for all,” Tony says anyway, just in case the kid needs the refresher. When casts a careful glance over his shoulder, he’s just able to see the tops of the police cars from where they’re at now. The cops are sitting there, waiting, prepared and ready, until their part comes in, and their comms are synced up to the suits’ so that the two parties can communicate when need be. “More or less what Franklin told you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Peter says.
“Good,” Tony says, then glances over at Peter as they continue trudging through the weeds leading up to the back entrance. The kid is still staring straight ahead, his jaw set and shoulders squared, and something in Tony’s chest clenches. He still wishes he knew what Peter’s expression looks like; that would make all of this so much easier. He just wishes he knew what the kid is thinking. “So here’s the deal: your job in all of this is to web people up, and only when I tell you to. You stay behind me, you don’t get in the line of action, and if tell you to get out, you get the hell out of there, capiche?”
That gets Peter’s attention.
He actually looks at Tony now, which feels like more of a win than anything else that’s gone down today. However, it’s more of a wait what look than a Tony I forgive you for everything look, which is admittedly a bit of a let down. “But I can help!” he argues. “Like, actually help!”
“And you will help,” Tony returns drily. They’re almost at the door now- maybe a few feet away at most. “You’ll web up these guys once I take them down and that’ll be all the help you’ll need to provide, kid. It’ll be quick, it’ll be efficient, we’ll be done with all of this before we know it and hopefully you won’t get stabbed again or anything in the process. Flawless.”
“Flawed!” Peter protests. “I can do so much more than that.”
“Sure you can,” Tony says, his voice tinny and slightly robotic through the suit, “but you’re not gonna. This’ll be a pretty cut and dry mission. There is literally no need for you to be in danger.”
”Mr. Stark-”
“Peter. No.”
It’s almost staggering how familiar this feels in contrast to the weird and unexplored territory they’ve recently been in. Tony refusing to let the kid throw himself head first into deadly situations and Peter protesting it is a routine practiced past the point of perfection. It’s almost relieving, in a sense; Tony knows how to deal with this. He’s got more than enough experience in handling the kid when he’s frustrated and raring to go- it’s just the strange, distant fury that he’s really clueless with.
But, however much of a relief it is to see the kid actually showing emotion, it isn’t going to make Tony suddenly want to let him leap into a dangerous situation. Contrary to popular belief, he has at least some self-restraint.
“Listen,” he says, glancing over Peter’s way. They’ve finally gotten to the door, the entrance somewhat concealed both by high, dense weeds and the fact that it’s the same grey metal as the rest of the warehouse, and he reaches for the handle as his voice turns firm. “Just do what I say, keep a low profile, and then we’ll get out of here and be good to go. You got it?”
Peter looks at Tony for a moment, his frustration clear even through the mask, but then he sighs and Tony thinks he recognizes defeat. “Got it,” he mutters.
“Good. Let’s do this.” Tony pushes the door handle down before either of them can say anything more, and they step into the warehouse.
There are stacks of cardboard cartons boxing in the entrance when they walk in, half concealing them from the rest of the space, and Tony ushers Peter in before him and silently closes the door behind them. He sets a hand on Peter’s shoulder automatically to keep him back, ignoring the way the kid tenses at the contact, and peers through a gap between two stacks of boxes, just able to see the rest of the warehouse from where they’re crouching near the door.
Honestly, the place looks half storage facility and half drug lab. From the limited amount that Tony can see, there’s roughly a dozen or so sketchy-looking lab tables around the place, with high towers of boxes stacked around them and fluorescent lighting glaring down from above. The floor is cracked concrete and the walls thin metal, and the chill from outside is tangible in here. Tony can hear murmured voices from just beyond the wall of boxes they’re facing.
There’s instantly statistics and probabilities flying across his viewfinder, FRIDAY supplying him with all the information he might need to judge the situation as accurately as he can, and Tony takes his hand off of Peter’s shoulder as he blows out a breath and starts thinking of options. The cops said these guys are pretty hardass, but Tony’s still hoping he can use the blaster intimidation factor to scare them into surrender. If worst comes to worst, though, he can always do minor damage to give the kid the chance web them up before carting them off to the police. Either way will probably work, and what they end up doing will likely have to be decided on the circumstances.
Tony tries to calculate what to do first, what will have the best success rate and what will get them out of here quickest. He thinks he’s nearly reached a decision when there’s a bang, a thud, and a yelp like a wounded pup that sounds so Peter it makes Tony’s breath catch and he whirls.
Suddenly, statistics are the last thing on his mind.
There’s a guy standing among the boxes at Tony’s former blindspot, one arm held out and weapon posed in his hand. It doesn’t look like anything Tony’s seen before in the hands of a human, which means that it’s one of those illegal weapons they’re getting busted for, and if that blue glow around the barrel is to be any indication, it’s got at least some sort of alien technology going for it, which is bad. The guy behind the weapon has a shock of stringy hair hiding his eyes, but his smirk suggests his aim hit its mark.
Its mark being, of course, Peter.
The kid is sagged against the wall behind Tony, one hand wrapped tightly around his right upper arm and hissing through his teeth. FRIDAY instantly starts running vitals and listing injuries in the corner of his vision, but Tony’s already starting towards Peter, keeping one eye on the guy but hurrying to shield the kid before anyone can do any more damage to him while he’s down.
“Woah, okay, keep it chill in here,” he says distractedly as he goes, not risking leaving the guy unacknowledged but also wasting no time in getting to Peter, and he gets a watered down version of a sneer in response.
God, barely three minutes into the mission and the kid’s already beat up. That’s gotta be a new record.
According to FRIDAY, Peter’s got two broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Tony’s best guess is that the weapon shoots some sort of incredible, high-speed pressure and the blast hit the kid full on in the right side, which really wouldn’t be that much of a stretch considering some of the weird ass alien shit they’ve encountered over the years. And, by the way Peter’s looking kind of dazed where he’s slumped at the base of the wall, he probably just got bodily slammed into said wall at a high velocity with the original hit, which is just the damned cherry on top of the bloodied and bruised sundae.
Tony finds himself positioned kind of half in front of Peter and half beside, unsure if comfort or protection is more needed in the moment. The guy standing over by the boxes still hasn’t given any indication of anything else he’s planning, which kind of makes Tony all kinds of uncomfortable, but he’s still gotta check on the kid. That comes first.
“Spidey,” Tony says hoarsely, and it’s probably the combination of the tone and the way Tony stutters over nearly saying Pete instead that makes Peter glance up at him.
He still can’t see his expression through his mask, which makes it harder to tell how much pain the kid’s actually in, but his tense stature gives Tony an idea. “I’m okay,” Peter says, not moving from where he’s curled up on the ground like that.
Tony beginning to wonder what Peter’s definition of okay is.
Sensing Tony’s concern, FRIDAY lifts the faceplate of the suit automatically. She knows that Peter prefers actual human features to the cold metal of the suit (to the point that his heart rate will often calm if Tony retracts the helmet while he’s hurt) and is probably just trying to make the kid more comfortable, which is smart until it hits that she just exposed his face in the HQ of a gang that runs an illegal drug and weapons ring.
Tony’s positive that he’s managed to invent some of the stupidest AIs on the whole god forsaken planet.
He doesn’t get the chance to blink before a handful of white powder is flung in his face.
He snaps the face plate back down instantaneously to try and block the worst of the attack, but the damage is done and he’s already coughing and sputtering on the dust as his world zeroes in on whatever he just got dosed with. Shit, shit, this is bad. He has literally no idea what the hell this shit is. His experience with drugs never really ranged into snorting, and he’s pretty sure that at least 90 percent of snortable drugs come in white powder form, which really doesn’t narrow things down.
His mouth stings with the taste of bitter chemicals, and now he realizes that the enclosed space of the helmet basically trapped all these potentially dangerous drugs right here in breathable range, so it was probably not his brightest idea to instantly slam the face plate closed. Even still, he’s not risking lifting it back up. Who knows what they could hit him with then.
God, he doesn’t like not knowing what this stuff is. From his limited knowledge of snorting, it usually only takes a few minutes for the drugs to kick in, so he might get a better idea of what’s currently being detoured into his bloodstream once that happens. But that also offers an entire new plethora of potentially scary ass problems, which is less of a perk.
This is so not good.
It takes him a minute to realize he’s staggered back to hit the same wall Peter’s still crumpled at the base of, pressing against the wall as he sputters and coughs into the helmet. Once he gets his eyes open again, blinking away the powder and squinting into the viewfinder, he finds two guys standing side by side in front of them instead of just one. Oh joy, they’ve multiplied.
The first dude with the creepy weapon hasn’t moved, but there’s now another man beside him, and Tony’ll guess that’s the one who hit him with the drugs if his white-coated fingers are to be considered. They both look like they’d be able to mug a mafia boss without an issue.
“... Mr. Stark?”
Shit, right. Peter.
“Hey.” He looks down at him where the kid’s still sitting on the ground, and an amount of the tension seems to melt from Peter’s frame just at seeing Tony moving and talking. But a good amount also remains bunched in his shoulders, tense and stiff and worried. In fact, Peter looks almost panicked now, the eye lenses of the mask wide, his posture wound tight as a spring.
Well, the kid is trapped in a scary ass drug warehouse with two armed thugs and drugged adult supervision and with a dislocated shoulder to boot. Tony thinks Peter has the right to panic at this point.
“We’ll give that a few minutes to kick in, Iron Man,” one of the guys says wryly, rolling his shoulders back as if he’s settling in for the long run.
Tony blinks again, trying to get his vision to clear and for the guys to come back into focus. He can’t tell if its the powder in his eyes or the actual drugs in his brain, but his vision is starting to blur, which is probably not a good sign. “Mind telling me what the hell you gave me?” he asks, wishing he’s able to rub at his eyes and try to make this go away. “Because if it’s just baby powder or something, that’ll save me a lot of unnecessary worrying.”
The thug with the white fingers laughs, the sound way too sadistic for Tony’s liking. “Sure,” he drawls. “Baby powder. Let’s go with that.”
Dear god, Tony’s gonna die.
Alright, maybe this isn’t that drastic, but seriously, he isn’t fond of the likes of this drug. He thinks he can already feel the beginning of the effects; the feeling of numbness settling into his limbs, the way his mind is starting to cloud, his growing inability to concentrate. This isn’t good.
The guy smiles, sly and tight lipped and less than comforting. “Feeling it yet?”
Tony’s jaw clenches. “Go to hell.”
“Alright, that should be enough time,” the other guy says, glancing at his watch briefly before looking back up at Peter and Tony again. “Listen up. We got a deal for you.”
Oh no. Now they’re bargaining.
Blinking hard, Tony fights to keep his mind in the moment, to not let it slip like it’s currently trying to. In his experience, deals generally do not turn out well, but he doesn’t let himself panic yet. The panic will probably come later.
He glances over to Peter to make sure he’s still doing okay, but the kid’s just staring straight ahead, his opposite hand steadying his dislocated shoulder and back pressed to the metal of the wall behind him. He’s so still it looks like he’s barely breathing, entire body tense as stone.
The drug feels like its working quicker now, like how the first trickle of water from a hose gains intensity the longer it’s turned on until it turns into a full blown blast. Tony’s mind is feeling increasingly loose and malleable, less and less capable of tracking lucid thought. That alone scares the hell outta him. It doesn’t even touch on the fact that he can feel his heart racing, his vision blurring, his body growing heavier and lighter simultaneously. It’s as if the drug is working him down faster by the second.
God, this isn’t good.
Neither Peter nor Tony respond, but the guys seem to take Tony’s looking back over at them as a sign that they’re ready to hear it. The guy on the left, the one who blasted Peter and is now standing with his weapon hanging by his side and other hand slung in his jeans pocket, says, “You call off your police department friends for us, and we’ll let you go free.” His mouth quirks, eyes shadowed by his bangs. “Pretty damn simple.”
For as fuzzy as Tony’s mind is quickly becoming, he still instantly realizes how shittily planned this deal is. That kind of says something.
Seriously though. The cops are still just outside. Everyone knows exactly where they are. All they have to do is send out an SOS call to literally anyone within a mile radius and they’ll be rescued. Step up your game, thugs.
It’s harder to put together words now, but Tony still searches for something to say, hopefully something witty and smart ass enough to make them think that the drug isn’t getting to him as much as it is. “How bout no,” he eventually gets out, after a minute.
Probably not his best material. At least it gets the message across.
The guys only smirk, glancing at each other with knowing looks that make the dread pooling in Tony’s stomach go cold.
“Okay,” the one who drugged Tony says mildly, shrugging. He reaches behind himself and, with an action that seems to snap from one state to the next, pulls out a gun from the waistband of his jeans with startling speed and steadiness. There’s the distinct sound of a safety being clicked off. Levelling it on Peter, he smiles, and says, “Call off your cops or I shoot the kid.”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
This is the literal worst case scenario right here. They’re going after Peter. They’re threatening Peter. It’s harder to keep a grip on thoughts now but the feeling of panic that crashes into Tony like a brick wall is impossible not to notice. This is bad. This is deeply, inherently, really really bad.
Tony hears Peter’s breathing hitch beside him, and his it feels like a fist has just closed over his heart. He fights to keep himself in the moment, to think of a solution, to come up with something, anything he can do to make this any better at all. He’s Tony Stark, for god’s sake, he should be able to think his way out of this, but he can’t, the kid- his kid, his kid is in danger and he has no fucking idea of what he can do to fix it-
But then Tony realizes he’s moved on instinct to stand in front of Peter, and it clicks.
He’ll keep the kid safe. As long as he stays here in front him, stands here as a literal human shield, the kid will be safe. Tony’s mind might be failing him but his body hasn’t gone off the deep end yet. He knows his judgement is skewed, he knows his mind isn’t working correctly anymore, but this is the best he can do. It might not be the greatest solution out there, but it’ll work.
He promised May he wouldn’t let anything happen to the kid. For all the promises he’s broken over the years, he refuses to break this one.
Peter lets out a breath of protest when Tony moves, but he’s roughed up enough to not try and resist him physically. The guys exchange an amused expression. “Playing protector, huh?” one of them asks, voice wry. “How… heroic.”
“Don’t touch him,” Tony all but growls. He thinks his words are starting to slur together. He can’t really tell.
The guy with the gun looks entertained. He doesn’t move the gun, but his eyes flicker to Tony, a small smile still quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Then what do you suggest we do alternatively?” he asks.
Tony’s response is so quick and instinctive it’s as if it escapes him without even needing conscious thought. “Shoot me instead, if that’s what it takes.”
”No,” Peter breathes from behind him. “Oh god, no. Mr. Stark, please, please don’t-”
But Tony’s already made his decision. He stands there like a statue in front of Peter, refusing to move, refusing to listen to the Peter’s pleading for him not to do this. He’s not going to let them hurt his kid. He’s screwed up so many times with this boy, and he’s not going to let it happen again so drastically that young blood is spilled. Peter deserves to live. Tony will do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.
He can barely feel his hands anymore. His mind is more clouds than sky. He finds that he doesn’t give a shit.
In a moment of stupid brilliance, Tony disengages the top half of the suit. FRIDAY blares alarms and warnings in his ear until the helmet retracts, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he knows what he’s doing. Within moments, he’s standing there in the old, age-softened t-shirt he was wearing earlier today and with the suit covering him just from the waist down, a perfectly mortal and perfectly vulnerable target.
“Take your shot,” he says flatly.
He feels exposed, standing like this, but it feels right at the same time. He’s keeping the kid safe. That will never be wrong.
“Mr. Stark, please-”
A new spike of frantic, desperate intensity bleeds into Peter’s tone when the chest plate of the suit folds away, but Tony ignores him for the time being. When neither of the guys move, Tony arches an eyebrow expectantly, daring them to react. Goosebumps arise on his bare arms from the chill.
There’s a moment of tension as the guys seem to consider their options. There were other people here earlier, but Tony isn’t sure what happened to them, because he can’t hear them talking or moving around in the background now. The only sound in the warehouse is Peter’s whispered pleas and the only motion is the movement of their shoulders as they all breathe, everything quiet and still and frozen for a long, silent few seconds.
But then the guy with the gun shrugs, smirks, says, “Okay,” and shoots Tony in the chest.
The world is suddenly plunged into mayhem like a burning broom into water.
Tony loses a few minutes. There’s the bang and a white hot pressure in his chest before his body hits the ground and his head cracks against the floor, and then there’s shouting and thuds and chaos and Tony drifts. The cracked concrete is hard and unforgiving beneath his back, and the lights are bright and glaring from above. Tony feels incredibly, inherently strange, and for the life of him, he can’t really remember why that is.
But then there’s wet, frantic breathing and Tony realizes that his head is suddenly in a lap, hands brushing through his hair and touching his shoulders. The warmth of the lap makes him realize how cold the rest of him is. The only warm part of his body right now is the growing splotch of heat on his chest, actually. Part of the cold is probably the concrete he’s sprawled out upon, but the chill seems to go deeper than that, more than just feeling a little cooler than normal.
Curiously, he reaches a clumsy hand up to the splotch. Something catches his wrist halfway there, seeming hesitant to let him touch, but then his hand is released a second later and he settles it on the splotch in a way that’s half intrigued and half confused. It’s beginning to actually hurt in a strange, dulled sense, he realizes, and when he pulls his hand away, it’s coated in warm, gleaming red.
Oh.
That’d be the gunshot wound.
And that’s when his loitering mind screeches to a halt, because the reason why he got shot comes flying back to him like a fucking meteor through a windshield.
Peter.
His eyes snap up to see who’s lap he’s lying in, and finds himself staring at the Spider-Man mask, blurry but distinguishable. Thank god, the kid’s safe. From what he can see of Peter, he seems generally unhurt, apart from the dislocated shoulder they already knew about. It takes longer than it should for Tony to realize that the kid’s talking to him. He probably has been for a while.
He’s crying, actually, getting out words between sobs as the material of the mask darkens with saturation from the tears, and Tony can feel how badly he’s shaking from where his head is cradled in the kid’s lap. “Oh god please don’t die please,” he’s saying desperately, voice breaking and hitching and breathing erratic. Tony distantly realizes that it’s the kid’s good hand that’s combing through his hair, trembling so violently he can feel the kid’s fingers shaking against his scalp. “Please, Mr. Stark, stay with me, don’t-”
“‘M with you,” Tony mutters, the three words taking a monumental amount of effort but still managing to cut Peter’s rambling off short. That’s a perk, at least.
“Oh my god,” Peter says in a rush, his head falling forward like it’s all he can do to stay upright. A shiver runs through his entire body, tremors running like shocks down his arms. “Okay, everything’s okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Tony. “I webbed the guys up and the paramedics should be here any minute now and Rhodey’s on his way so you’re gonna be fine, Mr. Stark, you’re gonna be fine-” His voice cracks and it’s heartbreaking.
The kid’s about to shatter.
Tony still doesn’t feel right, both too distant and too close, but even in this confused, floaty state where nothing feels quite real, Tony knows that it still comes down to him to catch the kid from falling. So, he does.
“Hey. Hey, kid.” Tony hand comes up to pat clumsily at Peter’s where it’s still buried in his hair, efficiently attracting his attention however uncoordinated the action is. “Calm down, ‘kay?”
The short burst of nearly hysterical laughter that escapes Peter at that is startling, and it sounds like it surprises Peter as much as it does Tony. But it seems like only a second later that the laugh devolves into sobs, coming harder and faster than before, and they sound like they physically hurt.
He turns his hand to grip onto Tony’s, breathing stuttering and irregular. “I could have taken the bullet,” he gets out, and Tony distantly wonders if he’s talking to himself, or if Tony’s actually meant to hear. He wishes he had enough function left in his fingers to squeeze Peter’s hand back. “I would have been fine if it’d been me, I heal fast, but you, you don’t heal fast, you’re- you’re just so human, and you took the bullet anyway.” His voice breaks there, head ducking as he cries, not trying to hold it back anymore. His tears soak through the mask and drip onto Tony’s shirt. “Why did you do that? You could have died, you still might die- god, Tony, I can’t lose you too, I can’t-”
“Hey.”
Peter’s voice drops off, his grip on Tony’s hand so tight it’s nearly painful, but at Tony’s voice, he turns his head to meet Tony’s eyes, breathing stuttering. He looks so broken.
Tony’s mind still feels kind of like it’s vacationing in Vegas and getting beyond drunk at the moment, but the protective, indignantly fond feelings that come at Peter’s words are easier to work with than thoughts, and, with some effort, he pulls himself together enough to feel more or less in the moment. The kids hurting. Worry concern sympathy comes at him rapid fire, and he’s not just going to sit there and watch Peter cry without at least trying to make this better.
He knows what to do. The words are there even if his mind feels shattered.
And, if Peter’s right about the whole losing him thing, then he’s really gotta get them out now. That’s scary in a different way than any of this, and Tony honestly doesn’t know if he really thinks he’s about to die or not, but he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Carefully, in an action that takes more effort than it should, Tony manages to reach his free hand up to grapple at Peter’s mask, not quite able to grip it with his uncoordinated fingers but his intention clear nonetheless. Understanding, Peter pulls his good hand away from Tony’s to tug the mask off, and flings it to the side like he’s pissed at it.
Tony’s vision is still incredibly blurry, but he can see enough to be able to tell that the kid looks kind of terrible. His face is stained with tear tracks and drained of color, his eyes watery and red and hair mussed. He shudders as he looks up at the far wall, trying to get a hold of himself, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard and attempting to regulate his breathing.
But Tony just reaches back up to place his hand on the side of Peter’s face, gently turning the kid’s head until he can steady his gaze on Peter’s eyes again. He used the bloody hand, unfortunately, so now Peter’s cheek is smeared with crimson, but that doesn’t really matter much now. His tears soak Tony’s fingertips.
“Kid,” Tony says, gentle but firm. His voice is a little slurred even to him, but hopefully still distinguishable, and he takes the time to pronounce each word, making sure they hit their mark. Peter’s cheek is so warm under his hand. “I will- I will always take the bullet for you. I’ll always keep you safe, always, okay?” Peter’s shoulders shake with silent sobs, but he doesn’t pull away, just stares at Tony as if he’s afraid to look away. Not for the first time, it strikes Tony just how familiar those dark eyes are, and another tendril of quiet, choking fondness uncurls in his chest. “I’ll always keep you safe.”
“Tony,” Peter whispers, voice hollow, but Tony’s not done. He just presses his hand tighter to Peter’s face and waits until his vision focuses again, because this next part is important, and if this really is the end, then he’s got to make sure Peter knows that what he’s about to say is real as the sky. The words roll off his tongue without conscious thought, as if his mind had been unconsciously mulling them over for the past three weeks, one day, and seventeen hours just for this. For the first time since this shitstorm started, he knows the right thing to say.
“You- you, Peter, are the best thing I’ve ever created,” he says slowly, carefully, and the words are so honest that they seem to emblaze themselves on his heart, genuine and raw and true. He finds his eyes stinging with tears too now, which is a little alarming but not unexpected, and he sweeps his thumb back and forth along Peter’s cheekbone the best he can with his current predicament, never moving his gaze from Peter’s. “And I’m so, so damn proud of you, kid. You’re the best one of us all.”
Peter starts sobbing in earnest then, great, racking sobs that shake his body and crumple his expression, but Tony is beginning to feel so wiped out that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to comfort the kid this time. His hand drops from the kid’s face, falling to rest on his chest again. He leaves behind a bloody handprint on Peter’s cheek. It stands out against his pale face like a wound.
Peter’s panic turns up about three full notches when Tony goes limp, his sobs turning into frantic begging for Tony to stay with him, to not leave him, but Tony doesn’t think he has much choice he has in the matter. His mind, briefly reconnected for that moment of clarity, begins to fracture to pieces again, sensations and sounds fading to the background. He wonders if he’s always felt this cold.
The room starts to go fuzzy, and Tony can’t feel his hands anymore. There’s a desperate shout that sounds like it’s from miles away and then a smattering of yelling that sounds louder and more dimensional than just Peter’s capable of, and Tony’s eyes slip closed.
The world falls away.
***
Hands.
There’s hands all over him. It’s so hot. He feels so cold. The air smells like blood.
There’s a deadened pain in his chest.
This has happened before. He doesn’t remember when or what but he remembers pain.
He remembers the arc reactor.
There’s a deadened pain in his chest.
Panic surges over him like a wave of ice.
-
“Did he just… move?”
“He’s regaining consciousness, how the hell-”
“Dammit, shit-”
-
He fights.
There’s shouting.
Everything hurts. There’s pressure on his shoulders, on his chest. More hands are touching him. The world is blurry.
There’s a deadened pain in his chest.
Ragged breathing. Jumbled words. Panic. Thrashing. Panic. He doesn’t know.
Something’s wrong.
-
“Dammit, keep him still-”
“He’s going to hurt himself!”
“He’s fighting me, I can’t get a line in-”
“Sedative, we need a sedative-”
-
Something catches his arms, tries to hold them down to his sides. He fights it.
There’s a deadened pain in his chest.
The world is blurry. Everyone’s yelling. He’s so cold.
His mind isn’t working.
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know.
-
“What the hell did they dose him with to get him like this-”
“Is a sedative even safe to use-”
“Mr. Stark, can you hear me?”
-
He thinks he hears his name.
There’s shouting.
Panic. Anxiety. Aggravation. Panic.
Writhing. Moving hurts. He doesn’t stop. Harsh pressure. Distance. Not enough distance.
Yells.
Something’s wrong.
Everything hurts. But it’s not real hurt. It doesn’t feel real.
It’s not real.
Nothing’s real.
-
“Mr. Stark, please calm down, we’re just trying to help you, please-”
“He’s drugged out of his mind and suffering from severe blood loss, he doesn’t understand-”
“Mr. Stark, you need to breathe, sir-
-
He chokes. Not enough air. There's plastic around his mouth and nose and the distant hiss of oxygen but there's not enough air.
He doesn’t know these hands.
There’s a deadened pain in his chest.
Something’s wrong.
The world swims. He doesn’t know.
His breathing is so shallow the world swims. He can’t think. He can’t think.
-
“Let me through. Let me talk to him, for god’s sake-!”
“Colonel Rhodes, we have the situation under control-“
”He’s PTSD and panicking, he needs to see someone he knows, just let me through-“
”Let him. We need all the help we can get.”
-
Burning. Freezing. He can’t feel his hands.
He fights.
Something forces his shoulders down again and he can’t fight. There’s more yelling. He’s trapped. He panics.
Then there’s a voice above him.
Then there are hands on his shoulders.
He knows these hands.
-
“Hey, hey, Tony, it’s me, it’s just me. You’re okay. Just relax, everything’s okay.”
“Colonel Rhodes-“
“Give him a minute.”
-
He knows this voice.
This voice means safety.
The fight drains out of him.
-
“Heartrate is already calming.”
-
He knows these hands.
-
“His breathing is slowing.”
-
He’s safe.
-
“Get in the line. We’ll give him a sedative and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m here, Tony. I’m right here with you."
-
There’s a distant burning in his arm.
Tony sleeps.
***
The next time Tony wakes up, it’s to a hospital room.
He stiffens, at first, tensing under the thin sheets and hearing the heart monitor beside him beep a little faster as a result of his instant yet vague apprehension. Even as bleary as he’s currently feeling, the scarily familiar white washed walls and tasteful but simple decorating is enough to spike a touch of alarm deep in the recesses of his fuzzy mind. Not to mention the thick ass tube currently stuffed down his throat. That’s probably another reason for concern.
Hospital rooms rarely mean good things, and that’s especially true when he’s the one in the hospital bed. And, looking out drowsily at the view he’s got from where he’s awkwardly sprawled out across what feels suspiciously like a crappy mattress, he’s definitely the one in the hospital bed this time around. Again, with a thick ass tube running down his throat. He thinks he’s on a vent. That hasn’t had to happen for a while.
There’s several IVs threaded in his arms, and he’s crowded by machinery, the quiet interrupted by the soft cacophony of the gentle whirs and beeps from the equipment, the hiss of the ventilator seeming to take priority over the rest of the sounds. There’s the floaty kind of buzz in his veins that tells him that he’s on the good stuff. He wonders distantly what happened to him. The dull ache of hefty injury in his chest gives him an idea.
He barely feels like he has enough strength to keep his eyes open for another minute, but he manages to turn his head on the pillow. There are two chairs dragged together next to the bed. Pepper and Peter each occupy one, both of them fast asleep.
Peter’s curled up on his side in his chair, his head resting in Pepper’s lap and lanky limbs folded up like a cat’s. His right arm is strapped to his side in a sling. He’s wearing a pair of Pepper’s old, gender-nonconforming sweatpants and a t-shirt that might have once belonged to Rhodey. He still looks pale, face grey against Pepper’s bright pants, with mussed hair and his left hand tucked under his head.
Pepper, meanwhile, is more slumped in her chair than anything else. Her chin rests against her chest, sitting slouched in her chair with dark circles under her eyes and faint, concerned creases etched in her forehead, even in sleep. Her hair is thrown into a bun in the back of her head that looks seconds away from falling out entirely. Her hand rests delicately but protectively on Peter’s shoulder.
They’re safe.
Tony goes back to sleep.
***
The second time Tony wakes up, it’s a little more abruptly.
He jerks back to consciousness with something both like a gasp and a yell, and then, recognizing the rapid beeps of the heart monitor again, freezes against the thin mattress like a deer in the headlights. His eyes flicker around the room, not yet panicking but a little frantic nonetheless, searching, looking-
“Woah, hey, you’re finally awake.”
Rhodey.
Alright, he’s safe.
Allowing himself to relax back against the sheets, Tony lets out a breath as the brewing panic begins to fade from his chest. He already feels exhausted, and like he’s just gotten hit by a handful of trucks and a soccer mom minivan for good measure, but if Rhodey’s here and Rhodey doesn’t seem to be planning an escape from a kidnapping situation, then the situation could definitely be worse than it is, and that’s at least a reassurance. “Oh, hey,” he says hoarsely.
Rhodey walks over to the empty chair next to Tony’s bed, sitting down with a huff. He’s holding a cup of half melted ice chips in his right hand, and looks like he hasn’t changed his clothes since yesterday, wearing a pair of slept-in jeans and a t-shirt Tony thinks he recognizes from college. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, settling himself in the chair and resting the cup on his thigh. His leg braces whir softly as he shifts.
“Like shit on toast,” Tony says honestly, his voice grating. On top of feeling like he’d been at the center of a highway pileup, he also feels like he’s nursing the worst hangover of his life, with everything aching and sore and heavy. His chest is probably the worst of the pain, though; past the clean, neat bandages wrapped around his abdomen, it smarts like a bitch, in a way that’s bone deep and impossible to ignore. He looks at Rhodey with a half wry smile. “So what’d I do to myself this time?”
Rhodey’s eyebrows raise slightly, and he looks down at his hand as he rattles the ice chips, the motion more mindless than purposeful. He doesn’t return the smile. “Think about it for a sec. See what you remember.”
Tony frowns at him, both a little concerned by how serious Rhodey’s being and not really feeling like thinking at the moment when his mind still feels as foggy and clouded as it does, but he takes a moment to comb through his patchy memories anyway. There was the mission, he remembers that. There were some guys with scary ass weapons, maybe some boxes, and then there was a bitter taste in his mouth and a gun aimed at Peter-
Peter.
Tony’s gaze snaps up to meet Rhodey’s, lips parted and stunned eyes wide. “The kid,” he says. “Oh god, Peter, where-”
“He’s fine,” Rhodey says quickly, not giving Tony’s panic the chance to spiral out of control. By this point in their friendship, he’s long memorized the basics of preventing Tony’s heart monitor from going off the charts high from anxiety and therefore attract some burly, intrusive nurse who usually ends up kicking Rhodey out of the room, and he’s got more than enough experience to back the efficiency of his methods. Rhodey’s good about shit like that. “He’s getting something to drink right now, and before you ask, Pepper finally left your side a few hours ago to catch up on sleep upstairs. They’re both just fine.”
Tony can’t suppress the sigh of relief that escapes him at that. “Thank god,” he mutters. “So I got shot, basically. Nearly died. Almost bled out. All that fun stuff.”
Rhodey nods, but his carefully calculated expression tells Tony that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. He sits back in the chair, expression half thoughtful and half troubled, a frown etched onto his face like it’s going to be there permanently. He still seems kind of closed off, deliberately distant. “Yeah, basically.”
Tony frowns. He doesn’t feel quite strong enough to prop himself up yet past the slight incline the top half of his bed is already set at, but he turns his head to face Rhodey more to meet his eyes, expression intently questioning. “... and?” he prompts, when Rhodey doesn’t say anything more. “But? I know that there’s something more there. What happened?”
Rhodey glances up again, his expression dry. He looks exhausted. “Do you remember getting a handful of powder to the face?” he asks.
“More or less,” Tony says, brow creasing. “What, was it straight up rat poison or something?”
“It was close enough,” Rhodey says tersely, and the seriousness in his tone is enough to make Tony shut the hell up instantly, all thoughts of humor to lighten to mood forgotten. “They got you with a concentrated dosage of phencyclidine. PCP. It roughed you up pretty good, Tones. Overdosed you, actually.”
Tony’s eyebrows raise slightly. “PCP?” he echoes. “Like, the 60s psycho drug?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did I… react badly to it, or something?”
“You essentially disassociated,” Rhodey says flatly. “You were literally fighting the paramedics with a bullet hole in your chest. Talking nonsense, freaking out, in a full blown panic attack and bleeding out to boot.” He sighs, leaning forward and dragging his hand across the bottom half of his face. “Been a while since I’ve had to pin you down to a gurney.”
Tony takes a careful breath. “Did I deck anybody?”
“Three paramedics.”
“Shit.” Tony lets his head fall back against the pillows, haunted and a little disturbed by the picture Rhodey’s painting. His PTSD probably didn’t help matters, now that he thinks of it; if people were trying to hold him down while something in his chest hurt, that would have been more than enough to send him hurtling over the edge of traumatic memories. And with the amount of drugs he was apparently hit with- no wonder he feels like he’s currently experiencing the hangover of the century. “I’m so sorry.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Rhodey returns, but Tony can see how much of a toll this whole experience has taken on him. The poor guy looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Knowing Rhodey, he might not have.
Tony sighs, turning his head to stare at the ceiling. His chest aches. “How’s Peter?” he asks, voice soft. “He saw all that, didn’t he? And with me getting shot…” He sucks in a breath, suddenly realizing just how much this might be getting to kid, both with his occasionally startling innocence and his past experiences with father-figures getting shot in front of him. “Is he okay?”
Rhodey sighs as well, resting his chin in his hand. “No,” he says dully.
Tony winces. “How bad?”
“He started hyperventilating the second they took you into surgery. Collapsed in the middle of the medbay, went into a panic attack, got himself so worked up he couldn’t breathe,” Rhodey says. He looks so tired. “They had to knock him out just to examine him.”
Something in Tony’s chest clenches so tight it’s almost painful. “Oh, kid,” he murmurs.
“You’ve already been out for three days, so he’s had some time to recover,” Rhodey says. Tony starts at three days, but when considering the fact that he’s breathing on his own and everything, it does make sense, however startling it is. That would have taken a few days to achieve. “They set his dislocated shoulder and he’s already been cleared to ditch the sling. May’s been here every evening, and Pepper’s been filling in for her with keeping an eye on him while she’s at work. He’s alright.”
“Is he still pissed off at me?” Tony asks, kind of kidding but mostly serious. His gaze flickers over to Rhodey again when he doesn’t get a response, expression pointed. “Seriously. We still haven’t talked all this over yet, and I’d like to get an idea of what I’ll be dealing with here once I’m fully lucid.”
Rhodey actually sits up in his chair at that, letting out a huff of a laugh that sounds half disbelieving and half incredulous. “You’re kidding me.”
Tony’s forehead creases in confusion. “What?”
“Oh my god, Tony,” Rhodey says. “Only you would take a bullet for someone and then think they’re pissed off at you.”
Tony blinks. “So Peter’s not still mad?” he asks, slowly. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure that you are an absolutely ridiculous human being.”
Tony’s about to respond, about to say something quick and smart-ass to make himself sound livelier than he actually feels, but then his gaze flickers over to the doorway and the words die in his throat.
Because Peter stands there in the doorframe, a can of Coke in one hand and Minute Maid lemonade in the other, looking something like stricken mixed with so incredibly relieved it’s as if his knees are going to buckle at any given moment.
Rhodey was right about the kid’s shoulder; it looks completely healed and back to normal, and any bruises or superficial cuts that Peter might have gotten from the mission have disappeared by now. He’s barefoot, wearing an oversized Midtown t-shirt over a pair of ratty sweatpants, his hair mussed and eyes wide, as if he can’t quite believe that Tony’s actually conscious.
“Hey kid,” Tony hears himself say.
“Tony,” Peter chokes out.
Rhodey carefully pushes himself to his feet, leaving the cup of ice chips on the bedside table. “I’m gonna go check on Pepper, let her know you’re awake,” he says quietly, and slips out of the room mostly unnoticed. Tony hears his footsteps fade down the hallway.
Peter stands there for another moment, the sodas clenched in his hands like he’s forgotten they’re there. Tony barely dares to breathe.
But then Peter’s expression crumples, and the cans hit the floor with a clang of tin and a thud of weight.
Peter’s across the room and curled up next to Tony in the hospital bed before Tony has the chance to blink. He presses into Tony’s left side, minding the bullet wound as he loops his arms around Tony’s shoulders, gentle but tight. His face is buried in Tony’s neck, and his entire body’s trembling, as if the alleviation of the constant stress of the past few days is just too much for him to handle alone. Tony thinks he might be crying again.
As soon as he gets over the surprise of having a kid suddenly squeezed beside him on the narrow mattress, Tony finds himself hugging Peter back as close as he dares. “Woah, hey, shh,” he says, mindless and reassuring. Peter only seems to press himself tighter to Tony at that, as if he’s afraid Tony will disappear entirely if he gets too far away. “I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay, kid. I promise you, everything okay now.”
Tony’s whispers fade after a few minutes, and they don’t really talk much after that. They don’t need to. Some conversations don’t need words.
A long moment passes with just him and Peter and no one else in the empty hospital room. He finds himself doing such stereotypical dad things almost automatically, rubbing Peter’s back, whispering reassurances, just being there, being present while the boy unloads, and it feels more right and more natural than Tony’s willing to come to terms with.
For a long moment, Tony just sits there and comforts his kid.
His kid.
Holy fucking shit, Tony’s got a kid.
For as much time as Tony’s already had to think it over, it still hits him sometimes. This nerdy little weirdo is half him. That’s weird. It’s startling and scary and concerning, and honestly, Tony isn’t sure if he’ll ever become completely accustomed to it. He still forgets sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. It’s a strange situation to be faced with, having a kid you were already incredibly fond of turn out to be your own flesh and blood, and one that’s probably unprecedented, so Tony really is just figuring this out as he goes.
However, sitting there with said kid tucked against his side in a cramped hospital bed, Tony can’t help but think that there are worse things people have had to figure out.
They’ve actually figured out a good amount of it already. And sure, they’ll run into some shit as all of this continues, but they’ll get through it. After these past few weeks, with all the shit they’ve already been through, Tony’s pretty sure the group of them can get through anything. He’s kind of afraid the universe will take it on as a challenge if he says it out loud, but he believes it.
They’ll figure this all out eventually, probably.
It’ll take a while, but it’ll happen.
Tony has faith.